


Frozen River

by fourth_dimension



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Disabled Character, Homophobia, M/M, Racism, but you shouldn't need to know yoi to get this, figure skating AU, non-magic au, shamelessly borrowing from my favorite figure skaters, yuri on ice crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourth_dimension/pseuds/fourth_dimension
Summary: Once called the next great hope of British figure skating, Peter Grant is struggling in competition and trying to decide whether to continue for another season. When the video of him skating to his idol Thomas Nightingale's famous Olympic program goes viral, Nightingale decides to emerge from retirement to coach Peter to one last chance at success. But after a brutal handling by the media when he came out in the 90s, is Nightingale ready to be back in the spotlight?AKA that Yuri on Ice crossover that no one asked for for.





	1. Chapter 1

_As he skated to the centre of the rink, he could hear the commentators._

_'Next up, we have Peter Grant of Great Britain. Grant placed sixth at the worlds back in 2013, securing an Olympic spot for Great Britain. But he’s struggled since, failing to qualify for the Grand Prix events this year, and just barely making it past the short program here in Boston. Inconsistency has been his downfall in the past. Let's hope he can do better on this stage with the eyes of the world - and the eyes of his nation - on him.'_

_The shouts of the crowd quieted, but the thumping of his heart was louder in the silence. He held his opening pose, and waited for the first notes of the programme to begin. It had been such a mistake to choose his father's music for his free skate. It was meant as tribute, but it only reminded him that he wasn't here to watch, had never seen him triumph…_

_But he could make it look fun, he could smile through his step sequence, and make it look easy._

_'And here comes the first jump-'_  
 - _just get it over with, you've landed it a million times, you are not going to fail -_  
  _'a quadruple salchow, triple toe loop combination’ – damn -_  
_‘oh but that angle, he tried to correct it but he over rotated and ouch that's a bad fall'_

_He knew he had to get up (he knew in real life, he had gotten up, had caught the beat of the music, had gotten through to the end somehow). But in the dream, he couldn't move. He lay on the cold ice, and the crowd started jeering. The commentary ran on, but this time, it was his mother's voice.  
'…and what was it for, all those years, and all those hopes, for you to give up?_

\- PETER!'

He woke with a start, heart pounding, “Peter! It’s the afternoon, for goodness sake! Are you going to sleep all day?”

“I’ll be up soon, mum” he called back. He flopped back on the bed as reality washed over him. 

He’d finished his programme, sure. He'd sat, stone-faced, in the kiss and cry, and his coaches hadn’t said a thing when the scores put him in last place. Encouragement, anger, anything would have been better than Coach Seawoll so disappointed him that he couldn’t speak.

He’d packed up from the competition hotel, and caught an uncomfortable red-eye home. When he'd landed, he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of heading back to Nottingham the his tiny flat near uni and the rink, that he shared with his training mate Jaget Kumar. Instead, he slunk back to his childhood home with his tail between his legs, to hide in anonymous London until he could sort out what to do next. He ignored Jaget’s texts. He let the calls from Coach Stephanopoulos go to voicemail, and avoided the internet. 

Even in his old bedroom, though, he couldn’t avoid thinking about skating. As a teenager, he’d covered the walls with posters and magazine covers of the skaters he’d idolized, none more than the last British Olympian, Thomas Nightingale. Everywhere he looked, he was met by The Nightingale’s grey eyes and wide smile. Here he was waving his medal from the podium at Nagano. There – partialy obscured by the piles of boxes his mum had put in his room after his father’s death - was the signed poster Peter's cousin had bought him for his 15th birthday, Nightingale in his signature men’s-wear-inspired costume from his ‘Gershwin’ program. The posters were embarrassing - he’d only taken one to his Nottingham flat, and mostly covered his walls there with pictures of his favorite buildings. Maybe it was time to take these down too. It was hardly inspiring to wallow in his despair with his hero’s eyes on him. 

It had been less than two weeks since Worlds, but Peter knew he couldn’t wait much longer to decide his future. Coaching agreements, ice time, choreography for the next season…if he was going to go back to training, he’d need to face the music in Nottingham. Or he could throw it all in, and register for the master’s degree in architecture, and start his real career. Either way, he’d need to do something other than eat his mother’s jollof rice and play Call of Duty. He was 26 years old, and it was time he became an adult.

But maybe not quite yet. 

Dodging his mum’s inquiries, he threw workout clothes and his skates into a bag, and caught the 393 bus up to Stoke Newington and over to the Lee Valley Ice Center. It'd been years since he'd spent much time skating here, but the smell was exactly the same he remembered from childhood, the combination of chemicals in the ice and greasy chips. Lessons were wrapping up, and he met Abigail coming off the ice, adjusting the bands that held her hair in place. She threw her arms around him. 

'Welcome back, wizard.'

'Still giving ‘em hell?'

His cousin laughed. 'Oh, you know it. The kids get worse every year.'

'I seem to remember a little girl who thought three-turns were a waste of time, and were invented entirely to stop young skaters from doing more interesting things.'

She hit him in the arm – hard. 'Did you come to get on the ice?'

'If there’s still an empty spot now?'

'Oh yeah. I was going to keep going with my students, but we can easily stay out of your way.'

'Alright. I’m trying an experiment, and I wouldn’t want to corrupt their young minds too much.'

Peter queued up his music. He’d skated this routine in his mind a million times over the years, but never where any of his rinkmates could see and mock him. With this music, he could sink into a place of pure concentration, a zone that was so often elusive in his own programmes. As he waited, he let his spine straighten, his head cock, and at the first bars of the Rhapsody in Blue, he began to fly. The ice under his blades, the wind against his face, no pressure, no expectations. It was freedom. 

Could he really let this go? Did he have any choice?

——

Thomas Nightingale usually struggled to remember why he’d joined twitter in the first place. It was full of people who thought harassing a retired figure skater was a great way to spend their time, not to mention people who got excited and spoiled the plots of shows that he was trying to catch up on. If Molly hadn’t set up his account for him, and then insisted on communicating with him that way, he’d leave it behind. Thomas would put up with much worse to make her happy. But he certainly hadn’t posted a public message in over a month. So why would Molly be messaging him to tell him his name was trending? 

He sat down at the computer, and petted Toby’s head when the terrier whined. “We’ll go for a walk in just second, boy. Just got to see what nonsense the internet has come up with now.”

The YouTube link Molly had sent was labeled, “Look who’s skating The Nightingale’s classic programme”. The video was clearly shot on a camera phone, and the sound was inconsistent, but he could recognize the bars of Rhapsody in Blue. A man in track pants and a Doctor Who hoodie was skating his choreography, the video starting about 30 seconds in to the programme.

It took Thomas longer than it probably should have to recognize Peter Grant - black figure skaters being a rarity - but in his defense, he’d never seen Peter Grant skate like this. In his competition programmes, Grant was known for his explosive jumps and inventive spins (his technical innovation had made him the first skater to land a quad loop in competition, but it had also gotten whole jump passes invalidated by picky judges). Grant was too young for them to have shared the ice at competitions, but Thomas had enjoyed watching him on telly, even if he winced at his more exuberant failures. He’d thought it was a shame that Grant had always seemed to treat the rest of his programmes like a chore to get through, on the way to the exciting bits. But here, he was flowing through elements with classic form, casually landing jumps like an afterthought. He was danced through a step sequence almost flawlessly and led straight into a flying sit spin. It was fascinating. Grant wasn’t exactly mimicking Thomas’ own balletic skating, but he was skating in a way that was completely different from his competition style. Was it just that he was on a practice rink, without pressure? 

Thomas played the video three times in a row. Then, when he couldn’t ignore the whining any more, he took Toby for a walk in Highbury Fields. Then he watched it again. And then he texted Molly: 

Tell me EVERYTHING you know about Peter Grant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a few edits to chapter 1 (Peter's roommate is now Jaget, not Lesley) so sorry about the confusion if you read that when it was first posted!

Peter liked the café around the corner from the rink. He could get a coffee, a bacon bap, or a bowl of borscht at any time of day - not great food for a professional athlete, but he figured a few extra calories wasn’t going to make or break him. Café Jonas had comfortable old red vinyl booths, and was decorated with travel posters advertising Greek Island getaways. The owners were an elderly Lithuanian couple, making the decoration a little random, but Peter liked to think they’d honeymooned on Crete. 

On this slow Monday afternoon, he was holed up in the back booth, nursing a strong americano and using the wifi to look up the requirements for master’s courses at UCL. 

_The Bartlett School of Architecture is one of the world's most exciting architecture schools, in one of its most inspiring cities,_ he read. _Our name stands for provocative ideas, boundary-pushing research and high-achieving lecturers and students…_

The examples of student work on the site were fairly impressive. At the masters level, he’d get to work on the designs for real buildings. Peter clicked further into the required readings. There was a unit on Buckminster Fuller and disruptive technology, with a class trip to Vienna and Krakow. He wondered what it would be like to see parts of cities beyond whatever was between the rink and the competitors’ hotel. What would it be like to just be a student, not an athlete who also took classes? 

As an 18 year old, he’d stubbornly chosen to pursue the difficult architecture course, when most professional athletes would have put off uni or gone for an easier degree. He’d enjoyed his undergrad classes, even the strenuous hand-drafting workshop, but in the last years since graduation, he’d dropped everything except his skating, as he tried to break into the top ranks. Being in London, and thinking about going back to architecture, was like opening a part of himself that he’d boxed up for too long. 

When Peter packed up a few hours later, he was feeling more cheerful about his future. It was a good sign he’d gotten so immersed in his reading. So long as he wasn’t bored, he could work steadily for hours. It had been a long time since he’d experienced that kind of flow state. 

Peter had put his phone on silent while he was working, and when he pulled it out to look at the bus schedule, the screen was covered with notifications. He’d missed texts from Beverly, Zach…wow. Half the skaters he knew had messaged him. He also had two missed calls from Jaget.

If Jaget was calling instead of texting, it had to be important. When his roommate picked up, the other man didn’t even pause to say hello. 

“OH, look who’s alive and finally returning my calls. I was getting worried about you!”

Peter sighed. “Yeah, I’m sorry. After Boston, I haven’t been wanting to talk to anyone. But I’m fine, I’m just in London.”

“I get you wanting a break after a bad loss, but I’m your friend! We could just play video games and not talk about skating.” Jaget’s voice was full of fond exasperation. “I’m your friend. Although, you’re a YouTube sensation now, you might not need me for moral support.”

“What are you talking about?” Peter asked.

“The video?” Jaget sounded puzzled. “Have you really not seen it yet? I thought you did it on purpose, a stealth-marketing thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is this why everyone in the skating world is texting me?” Peter was getting worried. What video of him could get this much attention? 

“I’m send you the link right now. But you have your cousin to blame. She posted a clip of you skating to the Rapture in Blue programme.” Jaget laughed, and Peter could picture him smirking as he added, “Thanks to Abby, the whole world knows about your man-crush on Nightingale. Fortunately for you, the world seems to think it’s cute.”

Peter groaned. “I’m going to kill her.”

“You should watch it first, Peter. You looked really good. Where have you been hiding skating like that?”

“Ugh,no. I was just doing the programme for fun. I didn’t want anyone to actually see it,” Peter whined.

“Seriously, if I could do footwork like that, I’d be bragging about it.” He paused. “You are coming back for next season, right? It would be too weird without you.”

Peter sighed. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Jaget’s concern, but he still really didn’t want to talk about it. “I don’t know yet. I’ve been trying to figure out my options.” Peter looked up the street, and saw an excuse to duck more questions. “I’ve got to go; my bus is here. But you’ll be the first to know once I decide, I promise.” 

He hung up. Once he was settled in an empty seat on the upper deck, he looked at the link Jaget had sent. Yep, there he was. It was the video from yesterday, with…oh god. Over 100,000 hits. He wasn’t going to watch it. He never could stand looking at his own performances, unless he was doing a clinic with a coach, and even then, it wasn’t fun. 

He knew it was a bad idea to scroll down to the comments. Nothing good ever came from looking at the comments. But he couldn’t help it.

 **Salchow239** : HEEEEEE’S BACK  
**Cupcakesareeasy** : OMG PETER!!!!!!!!!!!!  
**Skate-boi** : He skates it better than Nightingale!  
**Go-faster** : Yeah, well its easy with 90’s jumps  
**Cupcakesareeasy** : <3 <3  
**Ravenclawfan** : that step sequence is lit. Why can’t he skate like this in competition?  
**Salchow239** : He looks so happy I’M DEAD  
**Donthebest** : lol homos  
**Inthekitchen** : This is adorable. 

Peter slunk down in the seat, awash in embarrassment. It was bad enough he’d crashed out of his last competition. Now he was exposed to the world as a pathetic fanboy, imitating another, better, skater’s programme. Plus, the world really hadn’t needed to see his ancient TARDIS hoodie.

He texted Abby, begging her to take it down. She refused, point blank. She didn’t even apologize, just told him that he should be grateful for the new fans. 

Peter watched the city go by, thinking, at least the fervor wouldn’t last long. He doubted new fans would stick around once they realized he wasn’t going to win any medals. Internet notoriety only lasted as long as the shortest attention span, so it’d all be over soon. 

\---- 

Regardless of his doubts about his future, or his newfound fame, Peter had spent too many years skating every day to be able to easily drop the routine. 

The next day he got the rink early, wanting to make sure he’d be alone on the ice. Abby was at the front desk, but he didn’t stop to talk. He didn’t feel like getting into another argument with her. His cousin may have thought she was helping him, but he wished she had respected his privacy. 

He checked that the building was empty, actually going as far as to make sure no one was lurking in the locker rooms. He felt like a paranoid idiot the whole time, but apparently, you couldn’t be too careful. 

After a quick warm up, he started on jumping drills. There was something calming about the repetition of the drills, especially in a quiet rink. Crossover, edge change, hold…and jump. Land, hold position, return to start. After half an hour, he’d worked up from doubles to triples and was starting to feel better, enough to start playing around. He really should be practicing quads, but…what if you tried a Lutz from a swizzle? He popped a single, but there was something there…

“You’re letting your free leg hang.”

Peter whipped around. There was a man standing at the boards, slim and elegantly dressed in a grey suit, his dark hair combed back like an old movie star.

“My apologies for disturbing your practice,” the man said. “The young lady at the front desk let me through.”

That posh voice. It couldn’t be. Maybe he’d rotated too fast and somehow made himself hallucinate.

He realized he was staring. “Um, that’s okay, I mean, what…” It was. It really was him. Peter swallowed hard, and tried to get a full sentence out. “How can I help you?”

The man smiled. “I’m Thomas Nightingale.”

“I know,” Peter said without thinking. He’d looked at that smile every night before going to bed for years. He suddenly felt weak in the knees, and grabbed onto the boards. He’d always imagined meeting Nightingale someday, but at a competition, when he was wearing a medal around his neck. Not like this.

He realized the man was holding his hand out to shake. Peter grabbed it, his heart beating hard as his gloved hand was squeezed in Nightingale’s pale one. What was he doing here? Oh, god, was he mad about the video?

“I’m sorry about skating your programme.” He couldn’t meet his eyes. “It was just a joke, but I can get Abby to take it down, I’m sure, even though she hasn’t listened to me yet, I’ll make sure she does, I didn’t mean any harm with it I just love your skating!” 

He ran out of breath. He wanted to sink though the ice. But when he hesitantly looked up, Nightingale was still smiling.

“Peter, I’m not here because I’m angry. Quite the opposite.” He paused, looking down for a moment. “This is dreadfully presumptuous, but I’m here to offer my services as your coach.” 

Peter couldn’t believe his ears. Here was Thomas Nightingale – THE Nightingale – his childhood idol – standing in front of him. Older (but still ridiculously handsome, an unhelpful part of his mind supplied. Actually, his good looks were only enhanced by a few silver strands in his hair) but still every inch the man whose reputation Peter had spent most of his life trying to live up to.

Nothing in his life had prepared him to cope with this. How long had he been gaping? He tried bring himself back to reality. 

“But you’ve never coached anyone before!” Fuck, that wasn’t what he’d meant to say. “I’m sorry, that was rude. I mean, YES of course, yes, but…why me?”

“It’s true, I’ve never coached professionally, and I quite understand if you prefer to keep your current arrangement.” Nightingale ran a hand through his hair. He actually looked nervous. 

“Wait, I’m not saying no!” Peter hurried to say. “It’s just, I’m washed up!” He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “If you’re going to come back to coach someone, it should be a skater on the way up, not a disappointment who’s already peaked.”

“That’s nonsense.” Nightingale shook his head emphatically. “You haven’t peaked. Somehow, everyone in the figure skating world has missed the potential that you have.” His gestures became more animated, and his voice took on a wondering tone. “Apparently even you don’t see it. It was there in the video, though.” His elegant hands cut sweeps in the air with the force of his desire to explain. “You fully commit to each motion, and don’t show any hesitation or calculation. The way you skate, you make me hear the music with your body.” He brought his hands down, gripping Peter’s where they lay flat on the boards. “With skating like that, you should be a world champion.” 

There was a pause, and Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from Nightingale’s face, from the sheer belief reflected in his eyes. The moment stretched, and then suddenly Peter couldn’t take it anymore. He choked out a laugh, “I haven’t even decided if I’m going to skate next season.”

Nightingale seemed to recover, and dropped his hands. “That would be a waste, I believe. It’s your choice, of course. But I hope you won’t retire yet.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a square business card. Peter took it, some part of his brain registering the expensiveness of the thick paper. “If you do decide continue, please consider my offer.”

With that, Thomas Nightingale tugged at his cuffs, and picked up the silver-topped cane he’d leaned against the side of the rink. Peter remained motionless, and watched him slowly walk through the swinging door out of the rink. 

Alone in the rink once more, he clutched the card, his only proof that this whole experience hadn’t been a dream. He traced the phone number embossed on the back, and broke out in a huge smile. This wasn’t a hard choice. This wasn’t a choice at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Nightingale lived in a Victorian town house set back on a quiet street near Highbury Park. It had the kind of restrained, perfect landscaping, without a leaf out of place, that only resulted from a huge amount of money. Standing on the pavement, Peter fought the urge to go home and change into a shirt with a collar. 

He took a deep breath, found the modern doorbell located discretely to the side of the mahogany door, and pressed it. The door was answered almost immediately by a tall Asian woman, wearing the kind of black turtleneck and slacks that Peter usually would associate with a German avant-garde artist. 

“Hi, I’m Peter. Um, Thomas, said I should come over this morning?” She nodded, unsmiling, and stepped back to let him enter. “You’re Molly, right?” Peter asked, and fumbled his way through finger-spelling her name. Was it weird that he knew about Nightingale’s sister? She’d always sat next to him in the kiss-and-cry, so probably not? She nodded again. “Sorry, I don’t actually know much sign language.”

She shrugged, and led him through a tiled atrium and down the wide, carpeted hallway to what could only be described as a conservatory, with glass walls and potted ferns. Nightingale was sitting on a wicker couch, wearing a pale blue suit. It should have looked flamboyant, but he perfectly fit the surroundings. Peter once again felt under-dressed in his jeans and Henley. But he’d had plenty of practice not quite fitting in with the middle and upper classes, and under-dressed was better than overdressed. He squared his shoulders.

Nightingale rose and shook his hand. “Please, have a seat.” There was tea on the table, a beautiful bone china service. Nightingale poured him a cup, and Peter fidgeted with the sugar bowl for a moment while Nightingale poured for himself. Molly had retreated into the house, and it was just the two of them among the filtered spring sunlight and plants. 

There was a pause, while they both looked at their tea.

“This is a beautiful house,” Peter finally said. “The restoration is seamless.”

“Thank you. Molly made has made a project of this, and I’ve benefited from her enthusiasm.” Nightingale’s gesture could have referred to the orchid blooming on a ledge behind him, or the whole Merchant Ivory aesthetic. 

Peter took a sip of his tea, reminding himself to count to five and consider his audience before launching into a discussion about architectural details. While he was counting, the other man spoke.

“So,” Nightingale said, leaning forward with an air of getting down to business. “What are your goals for this season?” 

Peter relaxed a little. The tone was challenging, but that was a safe question, the kind of conversation he’d always had with his coach. 

“I’d like to get the quad salchow consistent. I’m hitting it half the time, and it’s been driving me crazy.”

Nightingale nodded. “Okay. We can work on that. But Alexander and Miriam could do that with you too. What else?”

Peter thought for a moment. “I want to medal at World’s,” he admitted. “I want to be in that top group.” 

“And you think I can get you there?” Nightingale’s tone stayed calm, but Peter thought he could detect a bit of nerves in his question. You’re the one who asked to coach me, Peter wanted to answer. But to be fair, it was the question he’d been asking himself, too. Was this just hero worship? Was he throwing away his season on a gamble? 

No. He was confident in his decision. If this was a mistake, it was one he couldn’t avoid. 

“No one has skated like you since you retired,” he said, looking at his knees. “I’ve tried to get there, but I can’t do it by myself. Why wouldn’t I go to the source?” He met Nightingale’s eyes, and saw he was faintly blushing.

“Good. But set your sights higher. If I’m going to coach you, you’re going to get gold.”

Peter wanted to laugh, but he was afraid it would come out hysterical. This interaction bore an uncanny resemblance to the daydreams he’d had at about age 12, the kind of dreams he’d put aside as he realized he’d never have anything handed to him so easily. He was talented, yes, but not the kind of talent that got a skater plucked from obscurity to stardom overnight. Besides, if that had been going to happen to him, it would have happened 10 years ago. No, Peter succeeded, when he succeeded, because his edges were deep, his spin positions were inventive, and he could pull out a quad at the end of a programme, when he’d already been written off. All those strengths were the product of sheer stubbornness and hour after hour on the ice. Every step, from landing his first axel, to securing funding from the federation, to slowly gaining ISU points and his fist Grand Prix assignment, had been grueling hard work.

Now, after that hard work had taken him as far as he could go and no further, here he was, was sitting in a posh house, having tea with Thomas Nightingale, and being told he could win gold. The other shoe would surely drop, but for the moment, he was determined to enjoy it. He grinned at Nightingale. “Okay, gold then. I hope you have a plan?” 

They talked over logistics. Peter thought, with Abby’s conniving, he could get enough ice time at Lea Valley, but he would need to switch his off-ice training to London, find a new physio, talk to his management. It was a big change, that would uproot his life, but a clean break seemed right.

“I’ll have to talk to the federation,” Peter finally said. “And first to my coaches. Seawoll will be mad, but I’ll survive.” He wasn’t looking forward to the conversation, but it was definitely past time face up to his his coaches. Even if they were going to think he’d lost his mind. 

“Better you than me,” Nightingale muttered. 

“Why?”

“Oh, Alexander and I have never gotten along.” His tone was light, but Peter suspected a story. Nightingale continued. “While I’ve been out of the loop, Molly remains well-connected to the skating world. We should let her handle the media announcement.”

Peter agreed, and started thinking aloud about gym space. Nightingale pushed himself to his feet. “That won’t be a problem. Come with me.” He led Peter back into the house, leaning on the silver topped cane again. Peter wondered about that, and tried not to look like he was wondering. He wasn’t going to ask about it, though the extent of Nightingale’s injury had been a topic of speculation in the skating world for years. 

Nightingale led him down narrow side corridor off the main hallway. They must have knocked through to the next house over, Peter thought, and again his mind boggled at the expense. Then Nightingale opened a door, and Peter’s jaw dropped. It was a fully-equipped gym. There were weight machines in a corner, a mirrored wall with a barre, and a large open area covered in mats. Everything was very neat and spotless.

“Is this all yours?” 

“I had it built a few years ago, so some of the equipment is likely a little out of date. But I think it will serve well enough.”

Again, Peter considered the things not said. This was the private gym of an Olympic athlete, hidden inside a block of London flats. He felt a little like he’d stepped through the wardrobe into another dimension, but he tried to keep his gaze confident as he turned back to Nightingale.

“This is seriously nice.” 

“I’m glad you think so, since you’ll be spending a lot of time here. Before we do anything else, we need to get you back to competitive shape.” His eyes were measuring, and Peter knew he was looking for weakness, for flab, assessing his body as an instrument. But he shivered under the gaze all the same, and bounced a little on the balls of his feet to disguise it. 

“When do we start?” 

“Off-ice training after the weekend. I’ll need to get organized. But I’ll come to your session tomorrow, and see more of what you can do.”  
“Okay, tomorrow then.” He paused, feeling he should mark the moment somehow. “Thank you. Seriously, this is incredible.” 

Nightingale blushed again. “You can thank me when you win.” 

********

As soon as Peter left, Thomas collapsed onto into the big leather chair in the library. There was so much to do, but he needed a moment to recover his equanimity first. Once they made the announcement, there would be no going back. The solitude he’d built, all the ways he’d protected himself over the last decade and a half, he’d have to let them go. Was he really strong enough for it?

Molly came in and perched on the chair opposite. _He’s sweet_ , she signed.

_He is. And determined. I hope he knows what he’s doing. I hope I know what I’m doing._

_No second thoughts, Thomas. He’s going to be good for you._

Strange as it was, he believed that. He’d barely thought through his offer before he’d made it, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret the impulsive trip to the rink. Ever since he’d seen Peter’s video, he’d been full of an unfamiliar energy. He’d made more plans for the future today than he had in years.

_I know that. I’m more worried if I’ll be good for him. That’s supposed to be the point, after all._

What if he gave bad advice, and all that beautiful potential he saw in Peter went to waste? It was addictive, imagining the beautiful programmes he could design for Peter, feeling the urge to create without the usual accompanying bitterness at his body’s limitations. He was having a hard time trusting that coaching wasn’t a totally selfish idea. Peter was his own person, not a copy to live vicariously through. Was he skilled enough to bring out Peter’s own talent? 

Molly shook her head, and responded vehemently. _He idolizes you, that’s plain to see. But he’s an adult and he’s not stupid. He’s making the decision for himself. You can sit here wondering for another 10 years, Thomas, but please, don’t. It’s time for you to start living again. Besides, the world has changed. They are going to love the two of you. I won’t let it be any other way._ Looking at the fierce expression in his sister’s eyes, Thomas couldn’t help but believe her. She looked ready to fight the world through tweets alone. 

_Okay. I’ll try to believe you._

_Good. Because I’m right._ She pulled a sheaf of papers from her bag. _Sign the accreditation paperwork, coach._

**********

Peter was still experiencing waves of happy panic when he met Bev that evening at a student pub around the corner from UCL. Once they’d fought their way to a table outside the radius of Freshers spilling pints of snakebite and black on themselves, he sunk onto the bench and downed half his pint in one go. 

“God, Bev, you have slap me, or something. I can’t believe this isn’t all some kind of a dream.”

“So the rumors are true? The Nightingale really is coaching you?”

“And by rumors you mean Abby told you.” She shrugged, and he put his head in his hands. Peter and Beverly had had a brief go at pairs, and an even briefer go at dating. They hadn’t worked as partners but had remained friends. He deeply respected her opinion as one of the few level-headed skaters, and he’d hoped, when he called her, that she might make sense out a series of events that he still couldn’t square with reality as he understood it. 

“I think so? He showed up at the rink after seeing the video Abby posted, and he told me he wanted to coach me, because my body makes music and I should be world champion.”

“Wow, Peter. That sounds like he was hitting on you.”

“No, he wasn’t! It wasn’t creepy at all, he meant my skating. I called him once I could think straight, and went out to his house in Islington. You should see the house, Bev, it’s a gorgeous Victorian terrace, and still has all the original molding. The banisters - ”

“Peter. Not the point.” 

“Seriously, it’s amazing though. He has a whole private gym. And he’s thought through the logistics. He’s serious about coaching me.”

“You are so lucky. I’m not looking forward to Ty finding out though.”

“Why?”

“She moved heaven and earth trying to get him as my coach. I think she tried blackmail. He refused point blank, said he had no interest in returning to the sport in any capacity. She was furious.” 

“Oh, wow. I had no idea.”

“Yeah, this was back when I was still competing in Novice singles.”

“Okay, definitely not going to tell her until I have to.” Bev’s sister was not only the scariest person Peter had ever meet, she sat on the steering committee of the British skating federation. “It’s not going to stay secret for long, though. I have to talk to Seawoll tomorrow.”

“Better you than me,” she grimaced. Peter knew she’d seen enough of Seawoll’s tirades during training to be able to picture just what he’d be in for. 

“Are you mad?” He asked, suddenly worried. 

“Nah, Nightingale was always your inspiration more than mine. We’re doing well with Varvara and Postmartin.” She smirked. “Hey – has he seen your shrine to his career?”

“No, and he’s not going to! I’m a professional, and an adult. I’m not going to act like a star-struck idiot around him.” Not anymore than he already had at their first meeting, he added in his head. 

She patted his hand. “Just keep telling yourself that.” 

He took another sip of his beer, and decided it was past time to change the subject. 

“So tell me about your new programme. Are they really going to let you and Steven do your short to The Weekend?” 

“It’s going to be amazing. If I don’t die trying to land the quad salchow.” 

A well-worn argument about whether it was harder to land a quad under your own power or as a throw took them through a second pint. 

“I’m happy for you,” Bev repeated, as she hugged him goodnight. “And I’m glad you’re not retiring. This season is going to be fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For skating references - Bev and Stephan's short program is inspried by [Vanessa James/Morgan Cipres](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xL2eELDzoSk)  
> And Nightingale's Rhapsody took some obvious inspiration from [Ilia Kulik ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUS1FUzQj5M)'s Nagano performance (minus the giraffe costume).


	4. Chapter 4

Ultimately, Peter took the coward’s way out, and called Stephanopolous first. Not that the assistant coach wasn’t terrifying in her own way, but she was less likely to yell over the phone. And Seawoll respected her opinion.

He perched nervously on the end of his mother's slightly-battered sofa, and selected her contact from one of the many missed calls. As he apologized, it all poured out of him, and found himself apologizing for all of it - his lackluster season, the disastrous final skate, the meltdown after, and his in Boston. When he ran out of words, he could feel her weighing what he'd said, and judging his reasons. 

“I’ve seen burn out before,” she eventually said. “Everyone has a breaking point, and you hit yours. I could see it, and Alexander could too. Nothing good comes from forcing you to train in those conditions. The only thing to do is to stop, and decide if you want to start again.” 

Peter felt a weight lift off his chest. “I’ve been taking the time to think through what I want to do next. I want to keep skating.”

“Good! I’m glad to hear it. It’s only May, so we’ve got plenty of time to start on your new programmes.” 

“Actually...” And this was the hard part to get out. “I am so appreciative of everything you’ve done for me, and taught me. But I’ve decided to change coaches for the next season.”

“Really? Who are you going to?”

“Thomas Nightingale offered to coach me. And I know it’s unorthodox,” he rushed forward, “but I think it could be really good for me, to have a totally new perspective.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Oh god, she was going to tell him he was making a terrible mistake. Then she barked out a laugh.

“You’re joking! No, you’re not joking, you wouldn’t joke about this with me. You’ve lost your mind. But it’s perfect! Only you, Peter, only you. You disappear for a month and a half, and reemerge with the reclusive ‘prince of figure skating’ as your coach.” He could hear the air quotes in her voice, not that she’d admit to being the kind of woman who’d use air quotes. She kept laughing. 

He didn’t know what to say, just waited for her to catch her breath. “Oh, Jesus, this is going to be fun,” she finally said. “Alexander is going to be furious, of course.”

“Yeah, I figured. But you aren’t going to try to talk me out of it?” 

“I stopped thinking I could talk you out of things years ago. Do I think this likely to end in tears? Yes. It’s a fucking insane decision, Peter. But I wouldn’t stop you, even if I could. I’ll even be rooting for you to pull your crazy off.” He might have said her voice was fond, except you’d have to be out of your mind to impute such a soft emotion to Miriam Stephanopolos. 

“You know, I think I’m looking forward it to,” she added thoughtfully. “When you show up in the kiss-and-cry with The Nightingale, the entire skating world is going to go bananas.”

\----

She was probably right about that, Peter thought later, watching the reaction to the press release Molly put out at the end of May. 

Nightingale had argued for keeping their arrangement quiet as long as possible, but while Peter would have liked to avoid the press as well, he knew better than to think it was feasible. Molly had proved to be a force of nature, dealing with the federation, and as soon as the logistics were arranged, she put out a dry, formal, announcement, with bland quotes from Peter. They did no appearances, put nothing on social media. It had been a stroke of the luck that the news of Nightingale’s turn to coaching had coincided with a royal vacation, which distracted the tabloids. The sports journalists dug for a comment from Seawoll, but there was no reaction from Nottingham. There had been radio silence privately as well, which hurt, but Peter was guiltily glad to have avoided the confrontation. 

The reaction from the skating fans, of course, was nowhere near that restrained. Molly got a kick out of sending him links to the Golden Skate discussion thread, where the conspiracy theories and speculation about what was going on in London were starting to reach truly astonishing heights of ridiculousness. But the mania was fueled by genuine shock and excitement at Nightingale’s return. Peter empathized – if it wasn’t happening to him, he’d have been thrilled as a fan. It was happening to him, and he tried to enjoy the buzz and do his best to ignore the ‘but why Peter Grant, of all people’ comments. 

With his friends, Peter tried to play down the drama. Yes, Nightingale was coaching him. No, he really couldn’t believe it either. What was it like? It wasn’t so different, really. It was going well, but it was still early. He just barely restrained himself from saying he was ‘taking it one day at a time’. 

With Jaget and Bev, who knew him best, he let down his guard – because he had to freak out at someone. 

It was different working with Nightingale. How could it not have been? For one thing, most of the time, it was just him and Nightingale. In Nottingham, he’d trained in a group of elite skaters, with a coaching team, a trainer, and a choreographer, all under the watchful eye of Harold Postmartin. The senior coach ran a tight ship, and while he didn’t do much of the training on the ice anymore, you could see his hand on everything in the National Ice Centre. There, a typical summer week schedule would have included two or three blocks of ice time a day, plus off-ice sessions and dance classes. 

Training with Nightingale, the outline was recognizable, but there was a new level of intensity, not to mention personal attention, that left him with no place to hide. 

It was a strange kind of torture, to have Nightingale constantly there as Peter struggled to get his body back to competition strength, with his hand pushing Peter deeper into stretches, standing behind him as he did lunges, to listen to him issue corrections in his firm, polished voice.

Nothing Peter did was quite good enough. His line lacked refinement, his spine wasn’t straight. “Even your fingertips should be tired,” Nightingale said, and they were. But somehow he kept going. The one time that Peter had suggested that he might be too old to be remade this way, Nightingale had just raised an eyebrow, and had just told him to do another dozen pliés at the barre. 

It should have been frustrating, and it was. Peter was no stranger to working hard, but Nightingale pushed him like no one else. More than the exhaustion, though, it was the way his gaze made him feel raw. And he seemed to have a second sense for when Peter’s mind wandered. He grabbed Peter’s chin. “FOCUS.” His hand was strong, and Peter could feel every point of connection on the skin…and it certainly worked to jolt him back into full awareness of his body. 

Beyond the rink and the gym, he couldn’t quite make sense of Nightingale. In training, his coach was very hands-on, but when they stopped, he would retreat back into a firm bubble of personal space. It made Peter feel like he was always a little off balance, and some days, he felt like he was scrutinizing Nightingale as much as he was being scrutinized in his turn. As the weeks passed, and they came to trust each other on the ice, he got used to the feeling, and stopped expecting the way his coach’s gaze sent a shiver down his spine to go away with familiarity. 

Under Nightingale's eye, every flaw he’d tried to disguise with bluster was on display, and yet, he didn’t mind being seen. It felt like breaking himself down, molecule by molecule, and starting fresh. By the end of June, he was at a fitness level he’d never achieved before. It felt like every part of himself was a tool, ready to be used, ready to be shaped. He was ready. 

\---

Peter expected that Nightingale would select the music for his short and long programmes. He’d often picked his own under Seawoll, but Nightingale had such clear ideas about technique and training that Peter was surprised to learn that he hadn’t already decided. “I have bits and pieces of ideas, yes,” he admitted. “But I’m still learning your strengths, what will pull the most expression from you.” 

So over the first week of July, he put on different music over the rink’s speakers, and Peter moved and danced, trying to find a connection with each piece. Abby watched them from the booth, whenever she could get away from the office or her lessons, and eventually Nightingale asked what she thought. 

“No warhorses,” she said immediately. “No Carmen, no Nessun Dorma, no Les Mis. And nothing too hetero-macho-warrior. I know everyone loved your Lord of the Rings free, Peter, but you aren’t actually a sharp-edged skater.” She turned to Nightingale, who looked a little taken aback at the strength of her opinions. 

“Peter has this huge presence and skates fast, so you want to give him grandiose music, but don’t do it. I think…something dance-y for the short. Something that gets the crowd with him and gives that boost. Then the long…go against type. Something quiet, that sucks you in and then builds and builds.” 

Nightingale was looking at her with a new respect. “That’s very perceptive.”

“Why have you never done something with lyrics?” she asked Peter. “You’re a good dancer, you could totally pull off an exhibition-style short.”

“I didn’t want to be type-cast, you know.” It had been hard enough to get people to take him seriously as a skater. He didn’t want to be gimmicky. 

She grimaced in understanding. “It’s different now that you’re older, though. I think you could get away with something less somber, without people thinking you aren’t serious.”

The next morning, Nightingale claimed to have had an idea. After Peter finished his cardio, they got into Nightingale’s vintage Jag to cross North London. He hadn’t yet convinced his coach to let him drive, but even sitting in the passenger seat was reason enough to pinch himself daily. How was this his life now? 

Nightingale fiddled with his phone and the adapters. “Listen to this and tell me what you think. Here.” He pulled a small notebook out of his coat, and pointed Peter to a page covered in his surprisingly messy handwriting.

As they pulled into the Highbury traffic, the opening notes of ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ began to play through the Jag’s ancient speakers. 

Start slow and build, Peter thought. Scrawled across the page were the elements of a short program, and notes. 

Deep knees, long edges.  
4s – no warning on the jumps.

He could hear it, in the music, could hear and almost feel where the changes would come in the camel spin, and the twizzles in the step sequence that would build through the ‘I know, I know, I know’ part. It was almost an exhibition programme - except the technical content Nightingale was proposing. 

“Two quads? Are you sure?” he asked, as the last notes died away. 

“Yes, of course. You’re capable. But what about the music?” Nightingale sounded almost annoyed, and Peter looked over to see him gripping the wheel tightly, though they were stopped at a red light. Was he that worried that he would reject his choice, Peter wondered? It wasn’t music he’d have picked for himself, true, but he could imagine skating it, and it felt right in his head, the same way that skating Rhapsody had always felt right. 

“I like it. It’s approachable, but not too cheesy. I’m already picturing the programme,” he added. “I’m just hoping I can do it justice and also do the jumps.” 

"We'll have to work until you can."

"Lucky me," Peter complained, but he was smiling. 

When they got to the rink, Peter was surprised to see Nightingale pull skates out of his bag. His coach noticed him staring. “I can’t choreograph totally from the boards, you know.”

“I just, I didn’t think you did, or could.” Peter stumbled over the words, sure he was putting his foot in his mouth. Nightingale sighed. 

“I can’t jump, not at all. I lost too much muscle in my right leg. I can just about move around, and do basic spins.” He was methodically lacing his skates, and not meeting Peter’s eyes, though his voice remained even. “Try to not to be too disappointed in me.”

“Of course not!” Peter hurried to respond. “There are lots of choreographers who don’t skate the programme at all. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Varvara do anything but yell from the boards.”

Nightingale smiled a little. “That's encouraging, but I don’t think I could pull off her fur coat.”

“Seriously? You’d look good in anything,” came out of Peter’s mouth before he could filter it. Nightingale blushed, and Peter looked away quickly, focusing on his own skates before he could say anything else embarrassing. 

It was heartbreaking to watch Nightingale on the ice, though Peter made very sure his reaction wasn’t visible to his coach. He skated with a stiffness, a hesitancy, that should never have been there. The imbalance in the depth of his edges was clear if Peter looked closely. There were still hints of his old style in his movements, but the steps were interrupted whenever he should have relied on strength from his right leg. So Peter tried to keep his focus on Nightingale’s arms and face, where the grace, and the absorption in the music remained unchanged. 

Over the course of the day, they built the blocks of the programme, trying and rejecting pieces of choreography, bouncing ideas back and forth. Peter reflected on his old dreams of sharing the ice with his idol, and while he’d never imagined it this way, it was glorious all the same. He’d never had a new programme come together so quickly. When they finally had to relinquish the ice to the group lessons, he and Nightingale were both grinning. The older man was leaning more heavily on his cane then normal as they left the rink, but he was still sketching out arm movements with his other hand, the creativity continuing to pour out of him. 

This was the point in the day when they normally would have parted ways, Nightingale dropping Peter off in Kentish Town, but he surprised Peter by suggesting a celebratory pint instead. “You were wonderful today, and I think we both deserve it after the work you’ve been putting in.” Peter quickly agreed. 

The pub they chose on the Stoke Newington High Street was full of the after-work crowd, and they squeezed into a tiny corner booth, knees brushing under the table. Nightingale lifted his pint. “Cheers. To new beginnings.”

“To collaboration,” Peter replied. He felt almost giddy as they clinked glasses and he met Nightingale’s clear grey eyes. “Thank you. Seriously, Thomas, I’ve never had a programme come together so easily. Days like this make me remember why I love skating.” 

“Me too,” was his coach’s quiet reply. 

In the warm bubble of their corner of the pub, as each sunk a little into relaxation, Peter finally felt in sync with Nightingale off the ice. Once they discovered their mutual distaste for Michael Bublé, and figure skating’s inexplicable obsession with terrible cover versions of jazz standards, the conversation drifted into concerts they’d been to, and then back into the pros and cons of ice shows with live music. 

“It’s fun to meet Jessie J, or whoever,” Peter said, “but there was this one show in Switzerland where they put the band on a stage that moved out onto the ice. I had to skate around it, and was sure I was going to crash into the musicians. Who thinks of these things?” Peter was very aware, as he spoke, of the way Nightingale’s knee was pressed warm and firm against his thigh, and he was trying very hard to not do anything to draw attention to that situation, or make Nightingale move. “Then again, that was the same show where I did a duet with Lesley and they gave us a Beatles medley – oh, very creative, they’re British, let’s make them skate to Sergeant Pepper.” 

“Wasn’t that also the show where you tried a quad flip in the finale?” His coach asked, eyebrows raised. “Feeling competitive?” 

“Oh, you saw that? Yeah, I was trying to one-up Ricky, and I got a little carried away. I rotated it though!” 

“Really? That’s quite impressive.” Nightingale smiled a little. “I tried to do a pair lift during a gala rehearsal once.”

“Really? Who were you lifting?” Nightingale carefully took a sip of his pint, and Peter caught the mischievous look on his face, “No! You were the one being lifted? Why isn’t this on YouTube?!” 

“To save the reputations of everyone involved?” 

“I’m asking Molly for the tape. I know she’s got it somewhere.” He pretended to reach for his phone, and Nightingale grabbed his wrist. Peter couldn’t suppress his gasp, or the shiver that went through his whole body. The comfortable tension that had been building with the flush of alcohol and accomplishment, suddenly tipped on the edge of something else, quivering in the narrow space between their bodies. Peter swallowed hard, and then Nightingale dropped his hand, and straightened up. 

“It’s time for us to be getting back, I think. Early morning, tomorrow and I want you up and ready to work hard.” 

“Sure, if we had another, I’d be telling you all my embarrassing stories.” Peter stood, relief mingling with disappointment, as the wall went almost visibly back up around Nightingale’s personal space. 

Deciding to leave the car until the morning, they parted ways, Nightingale into a black cab, and Peter to his bus stop. 

What was he doing, he thought, waiting in the humid June night. He had to get a grip on himself, repress this desire, before he ruined everything. 

But he couldn’t resist rubbing his wrist, where he could still feel the phantom pressure of Nightingale’s warm fingers on his pulse. 

He was in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise next chapter will have all the Nightingale's perspective you could want. 
> 
> Skating references: [Ain't No Sunshine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FKDHoI0MEdU), courtesy of Kurt Browning (look for the bit where he goes from a back lunge almost straight into a triple salchow. That is the kind of crazy transition I think skater!Peter would appreciate)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought this was dead? Nope, I'm just a really slow and easy-distracted writer.
> 
> I also continue to steal great skaters exhibition programs for Peter. Here's a free skate accompaniment: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mCildDfBLs0

No pleasure without punishment, Thomas thought. 

It had been wonderful on the ice yesterday. The communication he’d found with Peter, sketching out an idea, a movement, and seeing Peter take it, and make it his own…caught up in the moment, he’d skated more than he had in years. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done a camel spin, and he was paying for it today.

He grunted as Abdul’s strong fingers dug into his thigh. His physiotherapist, and friend, had come over to Thomas’ gym while Peter was off at his morning pilates class. 

“How bad is the hip feeling?” 

“Not too bad.”

“Thomas.”

“I overdid it,” he admitted. “I could still get out of bed this morning, though.” 

He maybe hadn’t wanted to get out of bed, but that’s what physical therapy appointments were for: the structure in his life he’d clung to when he had nothing else left. The habit of punctuality was firmly ingrained by now. 

Abdul made a very Scottish noise of disapproval, and resumed kneading Thomas leg. “How are things with Peter?” 

“We choreographed most of the short programme yesterday. It’s still rough, but I think it’s going to be quite good.”

It had been hard to step out on the ice, harder than he’d let show. Peter remembered him in his glory, and the reality of his skating today was so far from that standard. He hadn’t realized how much he valued Peter’s awe and trust, until he thought about losing it. 

He’d put off the moment long enough. He’d pretended to look for music longer than he’d needed to, and Peter would have caught on eventually. So he’d made himself push past the vulnerability, and engage the problem in front of him. Whether it was the inspiration, or the years of rest and physical therapy paying off – he’d been more capable than he’d feared he would be. 

And more importantly, Peter hadn’t been disappointed him. The admiration continued to shine from his face and Thomas drank it in. 

“You’ve done well by him,” Abdul commented. “I can see it, even from the bits of time I’ve spent with him. You’ve given him confidence in how he carries himself. He knows much more about his own capabilities.”

“Thank you, but that’s Peter as much me. He is remarkably observant – and very resilient.”

Abdul moved on to Thomas’ back, and began a story about the locker room gossip at the London Harlequins. Thomas tried to listen, but part of his mind continued, as it always seemed to be these days, to turn over the fascinating subject that was Peter Grant. 

\---

Thomas stayed behind the boards the next few days, leaning heavily on his cane.

Once he had the taste of skating back, though, he couldn’t quite stay away from the ice. He was cautious not to overdo it. No more than one session a day, and no tricks. He tried to be equally sensible about his emotional vulnerabilities, but his old familiar walls were hard to reconstruct. 

Peter was extra attentive, but a little quieter, unsure how to sympathize, perhaps. Or perhaps he saw the hunger in Thomas, and it scared him.

Thomas didn’t want to look too closely at his feelings, the envy and desire and affection wrapped up together. He wanted to be Peter. He wanted to have his touch and his attention and the joy he expressed through his movement. He didn’t know how to ask, feared he’d never be able to stop asking. 

Peter had his own guarded places, that Thomas could only guess at the shape of. He had the slight distance and watchfulness that Thomas recognized from the scholarship boys at his old school. The loss of his father, the constant need to prove his worth to the federation and the judges, or else his very skating could be taken away – it had left a mark on Peter. But the most amazing thing was that despite that history, he wasn’t cautious on the ice. He’d taken a chance on Thomas, and he’d continued to confide in him, with stories of his life, with his casual touch. His trust was addictive. The more Peter let him in, the farther Thomas wanted to go, the more of his life he wanted to understand. And in return, he’d begun to open up, returning to parts of his heart he’d shut down for years. He had to put a limit on it somewhere, remember why he was here. It was about the skating, and he couldn’t jeopardize that. So much better to stay professional, and pour that desire into the choreography instead.

It felt safe in the rink, wrapped in the sound of blades on the ice, counterpoint to the free program music. They settled on a piano piece, melancholy and joyful by turns, that drew out the nuances in Peter’s skating, and demanded complete precision. Day by day, layer by layer, the pieces came together. And the sense of communion across the ice grew. They didn’t talk much, but on the ice, they didn’t have to. 

The choreography, Thomas thought, was a series of questions. Do you see me? Can I trust you? If I let go of fear, what will happen? Peter pushed each motion a little past the point of balance, until the whole step sequence was about the impossibility of skating, the magic of knives of a slippery surface, the vulnerability of motion. If the timing was right, the final combination spin would be resolution, would answer the question. 

Did Peter see the questions he was asking in the patterns on the ice? 

Day by day, the quads got a little more consistent, and the programs got more like a second skin. And Peter started talking about costumes, and the summer turned into fall. 

The days started counting down to the Grand Prix, and his hopes and fears swelling in his chest were a bubble that was ready to burst. This quiet perfection of training would be replaced by the harsh gaze of the world, and Thomas wasn’t ready. But it was time. 

\----

The French countryside outside the train window was just as grey and brown as England in early November. Across from him, Molly was absorbed in her tablet, and Thomas was asleep. The lines softened on his face, and the tension that had been building under the surface in the lead up to the competition was temporary gone. 

Trophée de France, only an hour’s time difference and a 3-hour train ride away, was the closest Peter could get to home field advantage. He’d done this competition maybe five or six times in his career, but he’d never been this nervous. 

They’d decided to take the extra time to prepare, so he hadn’t done any early-season competitions. Now, halfway through the Grand Prix Season, he’d be debuting his new programmes, and his new coach. It was like being a rookie Senior again, except for the sky-high expectations. 

He was prepared, he reminded himself, better prepared than he’d ever been for the first competition of a season. The extra time through the fall had made his quads consistent and polished his choreography like a mirror. But none of that would matter if he couldn’t bring it together on the day of the competition. No one would see what they’d accomplished in solitude in September and October. They’d only see the two and half minutes tomorrow, and judge. 

He had to stop thinking about it. Maybe a walk. 

He stopped for a bottle of water in the dining car, and turning around, ran smack into Tyburn. Bev’s sister was immaculately dressed in a grey silk suit and pearl drop earrings. 

“Grant.” The look she gave him clearly said: oh, it's you. I enjoyed having forgotten your existence. He recognized it from when he'd drop Bev off from a date, and he couldn't resist giving his best cheeky grin. 

"Ty. Funny being on the same train. How are you?"

"Well enough. I'm looking forward to Lesley's performance in Paris, of course."

"Oh, me, too." And he was - he'd always rooted for Lesley May as she tried to break through in the Senior Ladies. But Ty was hardly being subtle about where the Federation's favor lay. 

"With how consistent she's been this season, we're all hoping for a strong Grand Prix finish." She added, as if it was a casual afterthought. "It's so nice to have a skater who little girls growing up in England can look up to, especially in an Olympic year."

Well, fuck you too, Tyburn. He took a breath. He could be polite through worse provocation. He ought to have a fucking Oscar for hiding his emotions around federation officials.

"Right. Glad to see you're thinking about the sponsors." 

"The sport doesn't fund itself, Peter. I thought you knew that. Unless your new coach's trust fund has made you forget the reality."

That wasn't true, but it wasn't totally false either, and Peter paused long enough for Ty to give a tight smile. "Try not to mess up too badly this time Peter. Especially not in front of the French." She turned and walked toward the first class carriage. 

Peter looked down at the bottle in hands, and realized he'd torn enough tiny scraps off the paper label that it looked like it had been through the dishwasher. 

Just don’t fuck up. Okay then. 

\----

Peter shook out his shoulders and bounced in place. He hated this part. All arenas smelled the same, ice-making chemicals and old sweat. It made his stomach hurt, or maybe that was the nerves.

At least this hallway was empty of cameras, and mostly empty of competitors. He jerkily acknowledged the wave from Michael Chang as he headed past in his black Team Japan jacket. The kid was too cute not to be nice to, but: 4 quads, and only 19. His base values were higher than Peter’s, unless he added the quad loop again…

“Do the same stretches you’d do at home,” Thomas’ voice cut into his thoughts. And something grabbed a little in Peter’s chest, something he couldn’t pay attention to, not yet. 

“I know,” Peter said, propping his foot high against the wall, and leaning into the hamstring stretch. “I’m sticking to the routine. I just hate skating last.”

“You can beat them.”

“I know I can. I just have to convince my brain on the ice.”

They heard the roar from the crowd, distant from the bowels of the stadium, and Peter’s stomach jumped again. 

“It’s time. I’ve got to get up there.”

They walked up in silence, shoulders almost touching. It felt like going into battle. He’d be alone on the ice - it was a lonely sport – but, in this moment, he felt more solidarity than when he’d been surrounded by rink mates and a coaching team. At the side of the rink, Peter stripped off his jacket, and handed it to Nightingale, who pulled him in for a hug.

“I believe in you,” he whispered in his ear. “You are going to amaze them all. They won’t pick up their jaws until the flowers are coming down.”

He stepped on the ice and then pivoted back to face him. He was conscious of the eyes of the stadium on him, they were about to announce his name, but. He met Nightingale’s gaze, still feeling the shiver of his breath against his ear, the solid warmth of his arms. “Don’t you dare take your eyes off me.” 

Nightingale gasped slightly, but Peter was already turning away, raising his arms to the stadium as he arrived at center ice and struck his opening pose. He would show everyone what he could do. This is what Nightingale produced, a skater unlike anyone before. 

\----

Simon: And now on the ice, we have Peter Grant, the British National Champion. Peter’s career has been full of ups and downs the last few years. He surprised us with his announcement last spring that he’d be changing from his long-time coaching team, and working with Thomas Nightingale, the former Olympic champion. 

Chris: Things have been very hush-hush from their rink, so this will be a surprise. Skating to Ain’t No Sunshine, here’s Peter Grant. 

Simon: And what a way to begin! Absolutely huge quad salchow.

Simon: And a quad toe-triple toe! That’s how you put those doubts to rest. 

Chris: That’s where he fell in Boston, but he looks like a very different skater today. 

Simon: Lovely centering through this combination spin. And a spread eagle into the triple axel.

Chris: With the jumps behind him, he’s really relaxing and selling this step sequence. 

Simon: Look at the speed on the final spin. Yes! He’s done it! Peter Grant, laying down the gauntlet. Don’t count me out just yet! 

Chris: He looks like he can’t quite believe the reaction he’s getting from the crowd. Well done, Peter! And there’s Nightingale at the board and it looks like he can’t believe it either. He’s still clapping! 

Simon: Here’s the replay of that opening quad salchow. Peter’s had under-rotation calls on it before, but look at that landing edge. No doubts here – that’s a beautiful quad. And the quad toe-triple toe – that was risky going for the triple with how pitched-forward the landing was, but he pulls it out, no problem. This is a level of confidence we haven’t seen from Grant in a long time.

Chris: I think so, Simon. Unless I’m mistaken, this is the first time he’s done a short with two quads. Confidence is exactly the right word, confidence and bravado. It’s a great programme for him.

Simon: I loved this bit of choreography, the footwork really matched the music. Lovely. 

Chris: That’s where you can see Nightingale’s influence the most. There are little pieces here you can imagine him skating. 

Cuts to the kiss and cry

Chris: And a cheer for Thomas Nightingale, the French crowd appreciating what a wonderful skater he was.

Simon: After his career was so tragically cut short, it’s just lovely to see him back in a rink again. And his example seems to be working wonders for Peter! That’s a personal best! And real warmth in the congratulation between them. 

\----

Peter had barely left the kiss and cry when the British Eurosport commentator grabbed him and pushed him in front of a camera. He surreptitiously wiped at the sweat cooling on his forehead, squared his shoulders, and tried to remember the canned answers he’d prepared with Molly.

“We’re here with Peter Grant, reigning British national champion, in first place after the short programme. Congratulations on your scores, Peter. This is different skating than we’ve seen from you in the past. Is that the influence of your coach, Thomas Nightingale?”

“This is the skating I always wanted to do. I’m so grateful for Thomas’ help in getting me to the point I can put it all together on ice.”

“You’ve had trouble previously with holding on to a lead. You fell from medal contention down to 9th at the World Championships last year. Are you nervous about the same thing happening?” 

Jesus, they didn’t pull their punches. “There were a number of factors last season that impacted both my physical and my mental preparedness. But I’m confident in the long program we’ve built.” 

They thanked him, and finally, he was free to go. His legs were starting to shake, and he wanted to get this costume off. 

At Thomas’ insistence, they weren’t staying at the competitors’ hotel next to the arena, but rather a smaller one on the left bank. It made for a slightly longer commute to the practice rink and to the arena, but the compensation of quiet was clearer after having made it through the throng of fans after the first practice session. Peter normally liked fans – the ones serious enough to want to talk to him were usually knowledgeable and enthusiastic, and it was easy to take a minute to sign an autograph. There were never so many it got in the way. He hadn’t bargained for the way Thomas Nightingale would draw others over. He hated seeing Thomas shrink into his overcoat, before putting on a smile and pushing forward. He knew he never want to see the glare Molly turned on a particularly persistent fan directed at him.

Molly claimed to want a quiet night in, or perhaps just a night without a tense athlete and tenser coach on her hands. So it was just the two of them emerging from the metro into a softly-lit street later that evening.

Looking into the cafes just starting to fill up, Peter was glad they’d gone out. It was a good reminder, there was life outside of skating. They passed a boutique, and as Thomas paused to examine the watches in the window, Peter watched their reflections. Thomas was effortlessly elegant in his long coat and handmade shoes, and Peter had tried to live up to the example with a reasonably stylish black jacket and his nicest scarf, because after all, how many times do you go out for dinner in Paris with Thomas Nightingale? 

How did they look, to a passerby? Handsome wealthy older man, with slightly-ethic younger boyfriend. All he needed was a better haircut to make the cliché complete. 

What would they be to each other, if they weren’t skater and coach? Maybe soon he’d find out. With a last glance at their mirror doubles, Peter risked a hand on Thomas’ arm to draw him further down the street, where they could disappear like any two men in the Paris night. 

\----

Discord channel; Trophée de France

-Did I get here in time for Peter?  
-He looks nervous  
-Peter Grant, Great Britain  
-that coat!   
-Nightingale, honey, what are you wearing  
-that’s…flamboyant  
-Couldn’t Peter take a lesson? Or borrow a shirt? White shirt, black pants, boring!  
-Guys, focus on the skating, please  
-Sry  
-He looks tense  
-Are they holding hands?  
-No shipping  
-I like that start  
-What’s the music  
-Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence, it’s a movie  
-Really quiet for him  
-4T+2T  
-Scratchy  
-Looked clean  
-Yeah green   
-He’s such a fast spinner  
-4S  
-yaaaas!  
-Gorgeous  
-Oooo you never see a layback  
-not too flexible  
-It’s a guy doing a layback, I’m happy  
-3lz  
-he’s concentrating so hard  
-that’s the step sequence over  
-3A  
-3F, step out  
-3A+1Lo+3S  
-Wow that’s late for the second 3a  
-3Lz+3T  
-3lo  
-That was a salchow  
-No, loop  
-loop  
-would be REP with salchow  
-Oh sry  
-np  
-he looks wiped  
-No wonder that was a ton in the second half  
-Will that go over Michael?  
-I will personally fight the judges if it doesn’t  
-Aww hug  
-What’s he saying  
-‘You were beautiful’ I think  
-awwww  
-that salchow really was gorgeous  
-I love the twizzles here, those are ice dance level quality  
-Yes, coach cam!  
-he’s dancing along  
-that’s great  
-Do you think he wishes it was him?  
-Ouch  
-don’t make me cry  
-he’s willing Peter on  
-they look happy  
-Scores  
-93.30 TES, 87.91 PCS, 181.21. 276.81 total, into 1st  
-YES what a comeback  
-oh yes Peter!  
-only 87 for PCS?  
-small fed, you get robbed

\----

By the time he escaped the press, the locker room was mostly empty, and he went through the motions of packing up, starting to smile again, genuinely this time. That really had gone well. He checked his phone, and saw congratulatory messages from his mum, Jaget and Bev. Thomas had sent him a message too.

I’ll see you back at the hotel.

Peter frowned. Maybe Thomas thought he could escape the fans if he went separately, but Peter had been hoping they could walk back together. He remembered the warmth that flooded through him when Thomas’ arms went around him coming off the ice. He wanted to celebrate with him, he wanted more of that contact. 

Steady, now.

He resisted the urge to bang his head into the cold metal of the door. For months now, there’d been an itch between his shoulder blades and a voice in his head saying go on, go on, you can see how he looks at you, the tension that is vibrating. It’s not normal behavior, the way you lean into each other, stand just a little too close at the boards, shake hands at the end of the practice and hold on a little too long. Actually, no, it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s attraction. He’s into you, you’re into him. Go for it. Go for it. 

But every time he thought he should listen to that voice, Thomas backed off. It left Peter wondering if he was imagining things, or if he was doing something wrong. 

One of these days, he’d have to get up the courage to say something. 

But not today. He’d just won his first ever Grand Prix, and he damn well would be happy about it. 

Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he decided to return the first of his many missed calls.

“Hi mum. Yeah, I actually did it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Brief Social Media Interlude, or: the past isn't dead, it isn't even past

_A selection of posts that Molly chose not to show Thomas and Peter, November 2016:_

 

**PETER DID THAT @3a3lo**

Nightingale/Grant, coach/student or married couple?

Response: 43 Retweet: 57 Likes: 154

\-----

 **Figure Skating, Explained** ( _fsfaq.tumblr.com)_

_Anon: Can you explain whathappened with Nightingale and David Mellenby? I’m seeing all these references to ‘Nightin-gate’ and I’m confused._

Oh sweet anon. I’m assuming you are either very young or spent the late 90s living under a rock. Buckle up for the biggest scandal in figure skating since Tonya Harding knee-capped Nancy Kerrigan.

First: Thomas Nightingale (Olympic gold medalist, 3-time GPF winner, 4-time British champion, 3-time world medalist). See him looking all suave with his terrible 90s hair [here](https://goo.gl/images/Qp4cUh). And in a very sexy unitard [here](https://goo.gl/images/XQgWQN).

David Mellenby (Canadian champion, Olympic silver medalist, 4-time world medalist). Seen [here](https://goo.gl/images/SuzRao) posing shirtless for Figure Skating mag.

Just imagine: the two most talented (and sexiest) men in figure skating, and they are huge rivals. They’d placed first and second at the Nagano Olympics, and again at the 1998 Grand Prix Final. The 1999 world championships were gearing up to be a showdown between Nightingale (who was winning on his pure artistry) and Mellenby (who had a huge, if inconsistent, quad). They each had (and still have) their fans and their haters, because nothing ever changes, and we’ll be fighting the jumps vs artistry battle so long as ice is cold. After the short program, Mellenby was slightly in the lead.

Then the morning of the free program, The Sun published pictures of Nightingale and Mellenby, kissing in the hotel corridor in Helsinki. (It was a terrible violation of their privacy and I’m not going to link to the pictures, you can find them yourself if you must).

The world went CRAZY – and not just the figure skating fans, this was international news. That night’s free skate is like the third-highest-rated sports broadcast in British history, as if the public thought they were going to kiss on the podium or something. Neither of them skated great, but they pulled off silver and bronze. In the post-competition press conference, the only questions were about the photos, were they gay, were they in a relationship, etc. Mellenby denied it, said the photos were fake. And Nightingale did the world’s greatest stiff-upper-lip and didn’t say ANYTHING. Like, he literally refused to speak for the whole press conference. It didn’t stop the press from hounding him though.

THEN, a week later, Nightingale was in a car accident in London. No one knows exactly what happened, but the rumors are that he was chased by paparazzi a la Princess Di. All we know is he was hurt badly and retired from skating completely directly afterward. He is notoriously media-averse and had pretty much been out of the public eye for the last decade, until he made the surprise announcement that he was coaching Grant this spring. He still hasn’t talked to the media about Mellenby.

Mellenby, on the other hand, went on to win another 2 world championships - all the while proclaiming himself to be straight. He even sued a couple of the tabloids for libel. He’s a coach in Toronto these days, with a bunch of elite skaters. Now you know.

**KwanOGM**

EXCEPT you missed the worst part. Just look at this gif. LOOK AT NIGHTINGALE’S FACE. That is the face of a man getting his heart crushed on national tv. Mellenby was a coward who was only thinking about his own career.

_#TeamNightingale forever._

**hummingbirdinthehand**

I’ve had enough with this Mellenby hate. I see everyone talking about this, and I don’t think you get just how homophobic figure skating judges and federations were – and tbh still are. Do you know how hard it was to be an out gay athlete in the late 90s? Only one skater had ever come out, and he was mocked and underscored.Mellenby was FAR from the only skater to implausibly cling to the closet.

Also, Mellenby was only 20 at the time. And figure skaters are sheltered from the real world, so lots of them are emotionally much younger than their actual age. He was ambushed by the media, and he panicked.

You have to look at what he’s done SINCE 1999. Mellenby’s never talked about his relationship with Nightingale, which is his right, but he has been out and proud for years now. See him here talking about fighting homophobia in sport, and here in the Toronto pride parade. So maybe we could all cut him some slack for some dumb statements in 1999?

_#Nightingale hasn’t exactly come out either #so why is he the martyr? #for all we know, his accident was drunk driving or something #its not like Mellenby sabotaged him on purpose_

**twizzleanddance**

UGH I’m so sick of this discourse. They were both good skaters, and if they had a fling, that’s not exactly scandalous. Can we leave this homophobia back in the 1990s were it belongs? Tanith Belbin and Charlie White got married while they were in competing dance teams, and everyone just loves them. I’ll say it again. There is nothing scandalous about being gay. The scandal was the paparazzi treatment of both of them. I personally am happy that Nightingale is back involved with skating, and thrilled to see Grant, who I’ve always liked, doing so well.

 **kwanOGM** UPDATE: Peter Grant just pulled off a bronze at Skate America. Know what that means? He’s going to the Grand Prix Final. With Jason tanking, guess who else is now qualified for the final? Ricky Lewis. And who coaches Lewis? That’s right, David Mellenby. With Nightingale accompanying Grant, this is going to be the first time N+M will be in the same rink SINCE 1999. ~~Time to dust off the fix-it fics from LJ.~~

\-------

(Excerpt from an interview with David Mellenby in Absolute Skating)

**…You’ve excelled with students with very different skating styles, and very different backgrounds. You’re based in Canada, and skated for Canada, but Richard Lewis is your first elite Canadian student. Why is that?**

When I first started coaching, I didn’t want to compete with the established skating schools. I started with seminars, and camps, and had a lot of interest from the Japanese and Korean federations. So that’s how I ended up training Mai Takahashi, and it kind of went from there. But Ricky came to me when he was 9 years old, and I’ve been able to start with him on the fundamentals.

**Is it a different kind of pressure, guiding the Canadian champion?**

Well, I always want the best for my students, where ever they’re from. But we certainly get a different kind of attention in Canada, and a lot of support. It was nice to have such a friendly crowd at the first Grand Prix event. But Ricky does feel those expectations to bring home medals for his country.

**Many skaters from your generation are coaching or choreographing now, including your old rival, Thomas Nightingale. Have you been following his debut this season?**

Not closely, but Peter Grant is a very talented skater. I wish them the best.

**You’ve become known for a focus on technical skating, pioneering use of video analysis. Do you think Nightingale’s creative personality will work as a coach?**

I guess we’ll see. That’s really all I can say.

**Moving on, then. What are your expectations for the Grand Prix Final?**

It sounds arrogant to say, a gold medal. But that’s the goal. Ricky is ready for it, and as long as he keeps his focus and his health, I really see no obstacle…

\------

**IceNetwork @icenetwork**

Is Lewis vs Grant the Mellenby vs Nightingale of the 21st century?Our analysts predict the Men’s Grand Prix Final http://icenetwork.com/article/...

Response: 3 Retweet: 18 Likes: 34


End file.
